


king without crown

by dollyfish



Category: 91 Days (Anime)
Genre: Birthday, Character Study, Childhood Friends, Family Dynamics, Gen, Jealousy, Pre-Canon, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 12:28:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11828766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollyfish/pseuds/dollyfish
Summary: But when you give her your gift, you also learn two things:One, your loving is unskilled.Two, the theory is very different from the practice.





	king without crown

**Author's Note:**

> this is tagged Gen since it mainly focuses on the development of frate's inferiority complex and psychology. however i have to warn you that his crush for Vanno is more than implied, even if the feelings are 100% unrequited and never actually vocalized.
> 
> that being said, please enjoy. maybe leave a comment if you do!

 

She is happy.

That’s what you should be seeing when you look at her, and while that horrifyingly evident radiancy that springs from her could not possibly escape you, nothing hits quite as close to home as the way she adjusts her tiny blouse and stands upright on her tiny feet and she looks so mature, so adult for her age. Fio is counting down the days until she turns into someone responsible for herself, even if they all know she’ll be someone’s spouse before she turns eighteen.    
Even so, even so- she has the nerve to be happy. And you don’t get it.

It’s not about hating her. It’s not about hate at all. You’re her brother- her  _ little  _ brother, younger, less experienced, and certainly less wise in spite of your equal education. But to the eyes of your father all men are not equal, and you both stand just a step below Nero, that conceited troublemaker of a brother. 

However, if one good thing ever spurted from the unpredictable ground of your older siblings, it is Vanno. Vanno, you don’t remember when he showed up, but he stayed. Your kitchen table has one more seat than necessary and the tapestry in the left corner is scratched since the day Nero and his best friend smuggled in a stray kitty - such a harmless little one, she was, before your father found out -, and one of the wooden floorboards is jammed - creaks a bit more than the others when you’re walking - from that time Vanno stumbled and fell and cracked a tooth too.

He’s always been there. 

This house remembers him. You couldn’t not remember him.

 

 

A day comes when you deeply realize the full extent of what your observations entail.

She turns fourteen.

She’s the older one so you always figured it was her duty to give you presents, not the other way around, and no one ever denied that this is the natural order of things, but, quite regretfully, you’re old enough to guilt-trip yourself into plucking a fistful of lavender in the yard behind the church to weave a crown for her. Sweet Jesus, no one could ever deny that you love her, love her with the clumsiness your fingers tie little stems together and put together your unlovely composition with. You love her step by step, slowly and steadily, learning that your family is the one thing you will always be able to count on, seldom second-guessing the process. 

But when you give her your gift, you also learn two things:

One, your loving is unskilled. 

Two, the theory is very different from the practice. 

Fio thanks you with a smile worth ten million, wears it immediately, all excited and the good side of giddy, as if she’s just been crowned queen for real or some bullshit and you’re hating the precise moment you plucked that pearl-white lily from the ground because it looks the most beautiful in her hair which is just a shade lighter than yours, a little bit brighter. She does look a bit like a queen. 

Someone has already noticed.

You grit your teeth and exchange sweet words and greetings with your sister and, inside, you’re trying to remind your current, momentarily bitter self of the pleasant anticipation you felt while preparing the gift, how the warm calluses on your inexperienced fingers symbolize your effort and devotion, how soft the petals felt against their dull ache. 

_ But that isn’t completely true, is it? _

No no no, what you remember with fragmented clarity is dust falling from the ceiling and that inexplicable moment of fury when the flowers in your hands felt heavier than rocks, the moment you wanted to tear something apart. You don’t know why. You don’t even know when it happened, but it’s been in the back of your mind. Like an intrusive thought, a bitterness that feels like another organ but also a completely detached part that doesn’t belong to you at all. It coexists with you, or maybe you coexist with it. 

You try to recall a petal’s soothing softness and apply it to the dull ache that is close to your stomach, because something there must be off and you want it to heal.  

But the truth it that you feel isolated. You feel small.

Your useless limbs don’t know where to go, and all the while she’s turning a year older - which means wiser, and more connected, important to the eyes of the Family -, the proofs of it are all around you, as bright as day, in a vice that doesn’t quite squeeze too tight, but doesn’t let you breathe either. You’re standing there and you’re watching her friends follow her around and play and joke like a parade of nymphs.   
She is happy. 

Vanno is standing there, in the shade of a tree, bringing cake to his mouth with a hand and watching. 

You’re standing there, watching too much, all but a strange, small and dark speck in a cosmos that gravitates around her, only her. 

 

 

Your mother dies twenty days before your fourteenth birthday. 

The theory that woman spent her whole second part of her life preaching is that you three must stick together, for better or worse. 

You know the worst is coming when her cough makes it impossible for her to have her youngest son by her bedside for longer than five minutes, but the intent is still there. Looking back, it is clear that you never spoke that much with your mother. The one who spoke to her the most was the priest who visited two days a week.

The practice is much different but for now, the cracks are merely on the inside. 

You’re so unspeakably numb to the gyrating movements of the cosmos that when Vanno sits on the edge of the same step as you on the marble staircase that leads to the second floor of the mansion, you don’t even make the effort of lifting your deep green gaze.

He asks you how it’s going.

You, Frate Vanetti, haven’t cried for twenty days - some day around two years ago you started to keep count -, yet the lump in your throat won’t leave, an abyssal point that attracts and suppresses all the mass around it, your thoughts, your ability to hold back your venom.

“I feel like shit”, you answer, the swear light on your tongue but still able to make you feel guilty, while a shy smile tugs at the left corner of the dry mouth you keep shut because of arbitrary reasons, namely your age, and your position. For once, you tell the truth. Although not so mature at the age of nineteen, Vanno is an emotionally smart man; he can, and will respect this sort of secrets. 

“This is no day to stay here sulking, birthday boy”, Vanno says. He throws a yellow envelope, the size of a fist, in your lap. “Here. Ah, you can join me and Fio in the kitchen if you want to.”

When he gets up with a sigh and makes to leave you to your own devices, your hand shoots up and grabs his wrist. The sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up, showing the dark hair on his big forearms and the veins running beneath the skin of his hand, which twitches the moment you stop him. 

You gulp. It’s so loud that you hear it. 

“I wanted to have a party. Like theirs, y’know.” And all you manage to do is sound like a whiny child, reinforcing the image you know Vanno has of you. You’ve lost this game from the start. You know you’re staring a hole into Vanno’s thigh. “I won’t ask father next year. I’ll be too old.”

It’s true, but you also didn’t want to have a party today. Your sister is bearing a weight you can only glimpse at all alone, your brother has been insufferable these past few days. And you, you may have been out of touch with people. 

It’s not that you don’t have friends, but not one of them would have come. 

“Yeah, I kinda get it.” Vanno thinks about it for a moment. Then he leans against the wall, hands in his pocket, and he grins. “The only birthday party I would get only happened if my old man had drank enough not to notice. But Frate, hey, we’ll still be here next year. You’ll celebrate with us.”   
“Yeah”, you agree. Hearing him say it makes something in you go soft.

“It’s gonna be fun.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I don’t trust that word in your mouth.”

“There goes all hope for you.”

“Sorry. Someone has to be the party pooper, since Fio isn’t here...”   
Vanno luckily seems to find that funny, even if it wasn’t meant to be. “Fair enough.” 

And this, exactly this, is the reason that one crack keeps getting bigger, and bigger, every time you let your eyes wander on Vanno’s imposing figure. With the way you learn his physicality from afar, you swear you’re probably obsessed; even to the point of using that mental map of yours to jerk yourself off. For one, he’s warm. Warmer than any man who has ever fired a gun should be. You’d describe him as broad; and that strong jawline, and that pair of pale irises that could stare right through you, dissect your whole structure and even see the worms. Your advantage is that he’s too kind. 

But one thing still stands:

Your loving is unskilled. Clumsy. Often times unrequited.

“I’ll see you in the kitchen then.” Vanno ruffles your hair, and then he retreats. He handles you well enough for someone who likes you only because you’re a familiar extension of the two people most dear to him in the world.

You sit there, in an attempt to recognize that pleasant, tingling sensation that runs down your spine and for a second, you don’t have to think about Nero, nor Fio, nor birthdays and flowers and the bitter taste that’s always in your mouth no matter how much coffee you try to wash it out with. 

A heartbeat, and the sensation wilts. Now you remember yourself.

Being fourteen doesn’t quite work the same magic on you that it did on her, you decide. But then again you’ve never been asked to grow fast to begin with, no one is waiting for you to be older, and certainly no one is watching in fear of missing the moment you bloom.

You undo the wrapping of the gift carefully, your eyes steady. 

It’s a soft blue tie, and your fingers find the fabric smooth, comfortable. You set it beside you.

Thoughts of Fio resurface, of her calm laughter, of white lilies, of Vanno, who used to smoke cigarettes solely to impress her, but still helped her pick flowers out of her blond hair at the end of the day.

It’s not the first time you think about stealing someone else’s happiness.

 

 

 


End file.
